My dad had just finished what would be the first of three full rounds of treatments for Stage IV lung cancer. It was July 9, 2009 and this was his surprise birthday party. I pinned the rose boutonniere, carefully ordered two nights before, on his lapel. The multi-zippered jacket he was wearing was more Euro-looking than I was used to on him, most likely my mom’s purchase. “I’ve lost weight,” he said, rubbing his ribs with both hands and smiling, trying to make a joke but falling short. I smiled back and kissed him on both cheeks, “Happy Birthday, Baba.”

My younger sister Stephanie wasn’t speaking to me. “What is wrong with you? Why aren’t you helping? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Your father has cancer and you can’t help throw him a party? I don’t care if you have three-year old. We’re all busy.” My sister…